


Elegy

by edonyx



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 03:30:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edonyx/pseuds/edonyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cloverfield AU. 'Elegy' is a poem or song to lament the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elegy

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are not pwned. Do not sue, it upsets my tapeworm.

April 9, 2007, 6:42 am (Happy Fcuking Birthday)

When Frank opens his eyes, it's to the circular black lens of a video camera. _Gerard's_ camera, and it's not exactly what he wants to see when he's freshly awake, hair hanging in his eyes, face smushed into a pillow that smells like Gerard's skin. And that's just what's going on above his shoulders. Not that there's a whole lot going on down below, either, except for some kind of pleasant day-after ache, and the bit of cotton sheet that he coveted away from Gerard in his sleep sitting over his hips. _Naked_ hips. Naked? Did they-? "No, seriously. That red light doesn't mean you're recording, right? You realize this shit's going to end up on youtube or something. Mikey's gonna get a hold of it, and that'll just be the end of the fuckin' world."

Gerard just grins from behind the eyepiece, panning lewdly down Frank's body, at how his tattoos are almost reflected against the stark white of the sheets, the crook of his leg against the mattress. "What do you wanna do today?" At least he's sort-of dressed, in his boxers and not much else, and when Frank rolls onto his side with a sigh, it doesn't go without an appreciative glance up the length of Gee's body.

"Dunno. It's your birthday, you make the call."

The way Frank stretches lazily in Gerard's bed, like a cat, small and content and _gorgeous_ (and why didn't Gerard ever notice it before?), makes Gee set the camera down on the bedside table, lens aimed at the pillows rather than anywhere else. He forgets that he's recording.

The video's innocent, mostly, hushed words, sounds, the slip of mouth to mouth, until Gerard moves slow and sure, the tension showing in his shoulders and the way he holds his breath. Frank's head falls back against the pillow, eyes squeezed closed and lip caught between his teeth - breathe-moan-hiss-_unnh_ \- fingers fisted in the black mess of Gerard's hair.

The camera catches the back-and-forth inertia of their bodies, the way Gerard leans down to breathe against Frank's throat, forehead resting on Frank's chin, "Happy birthday, me."

 

April 9, 2007, 2:17 pm

"No, dude, you're his brother. You get to do the testimonials or whatever. I'm holding the party, it's _my_ thing, so you get to walk around and take video." Pete, as usual, is trying to pawn off his duties on everyone around him, whether it's trying to get Brendon to man the bar, or Ryan to help clean up, or for Jon to stop wearing those fucking _flip-flops_, doesn't he realize it's not warm enough yet? And what if he steps on a chunk of broken glass or something?

Jon makes a comment about how it's because Pete's a midget, and can't handle normal temperatures, and how he, Jon Walker, has the grace of a swan, before disappearing back into the kitchen to see what Spencer's trying to cook. For the eighth time so far, today.

"Pete, seriously. It's _my_ brother, but it's _his_ birthday, and I'm not gonna spend it behind a _camera!_" Mikey makes a halfhearted attempt to push the video camera back into Pete's hands. "Besides, it's his camera. It was sitting on his table when I went over there, earlier. There's a memory card already in it, ready to go. So find someone else." Mikey irritably lights a cigarette, knowing full well it'll piss Pete off, Pete-the-nonsmoker, Pete-the-club-owner, Pete Wentz, God's gift to the partier. But Pete's the one putting this whole shindig together for Gerard, for his thirtieth birthday, and managed, even with his giant mouth, to keep it all a total fucking surprise.

Gerard's going to _kill_ him. All of them, actually.

Unless Brendon kills them all first, while trying to do snazzy tricks with the liquor bottles, much to Pete's hollering about how Brendon is _not_ Tom Cruise, and how this isn't Cocktail, motherfucker, and to put the bottles _down_ before he decapitates poor Ryan with one of them. Patrick laughs, and Pete decides to holler at him, instead. Mikey wonders if their lives would be easier if they just fucked and got it over with. If they'd get along better.

But then he wonders which 'they' he's thinking of. It could be anyone, if Pete's involved.

...Maybe Bob'll take the video...

 

April 9, 2007, 4:15 pm

"Spence, it's been _two hours._ What are you _cooking?_" But Spencer elbows Jon out of his personal space for the fourteenth time, taking a step back in his obscenely fancy-shmancy shoes in a silent threat to take one or two of Jon's toes off.

"Lots of stuff. You'll get some, later. What's Pete got _you_ doing, anyway? Like, are you the executive checker-upper or something? Can't you go harass Ryan for a bit?" But really, Spencer kind of likes that Jon's in the kitchen with him. He likes the interest on Jon's face, like what Spencer's doing is really cool, or special, or something. Or that it means more than just food that's going to get eaten and forgotten. "If you wanna stay, make yourself useful. You can start putting stuff on the plates, and then get Kaiser Peter out there to tell you where it goes." It's Spencer's way of asking Jon to stay, because there really _is_ a lot of stuff to put out.

And Jon always makes him laugh, with his goofy faces and warm smile and his just-being-there. And maybe that's more than what Spencer should feel or should want, but hey. Jon's his buddy. And if sometimes the way Jon sets his hand on Spencer's shoulder feels maybe... too long, too intimate, then it's just because they're _comfortable._ Friends. "Or you can get out the chocolate syrup and get Frank's stupid non-dairy dessert things ready. Whatever." Spencer's shrug is almost too-casual, and the _just stay_ that rocks in the motion of his shoulders is implicit. "Just don't climb up my back when I'm at the stove, okay? I'd rather not serve Jon Flambé at Gerard's birthday. Frank would have a shit, anyway."

The conversation goes back and forth easily, around the gossip of _Frank_ and _Gerard_ and _do you think-?_ and _ahaha, if they aren't, I'll eat your stupid sandals_, and avoiding the idea that maybe the same thing's happening between them. Because they're _friends,_ and friends just _don't._

 

April 9, 2007, 2:20 pm

"Poor Ryan? _Poor Ryan?_" Now Pete's got Ryan himself to deal with, in his fashionably mismatched clothes, looking like a stick-figure out of a badly shot version of some Charles Dickens movie. "I'm sorry, but, _what?_ Just because I'm the size of Patrick's arm doesn't mean I'm poor _anything_, dude. I could break your neck before you even knew I was all like, HAI-YAH or anything."

"It's true," Brendon adds, from behind the bar, where he's carefully picking up bits of broken glass from amongst the remnants of tequila. "He's like, some kind of massive stealth ninja when he wants to be." He sounds sheepish, which is one of about seven thousand voices that Brendon Urie manages to keep behind those lips of his. Or, well, not. He might be clumsy, he might have the attention span of a flake of snow, he might be _loud_, but Pete still admires him, because he's _brilliant._ Even if he did just break a bottle of booze.

"So that's why you wear that stupid thing around your head?" Patrick asks, from where he's setting up the karaoke. "Half the time, I can't tell if it's a necktie, and someone's playing a mean joke on you, or if you're just doing it as a fashion statement. And I resent that comment about my arm. You're the size of my leg, maybe. But not my _arm._ And it's nice to see you actually _react_ to something, instead of just being a wretch."

Ray and Bob come in with an armload each of decorations, streamers and balloons and a banner, and Patrick nods at them in greeting. It's kind of weird, seeing all of Gerard's friends get together, when the relationship kind of goes  


  
Gerard  
|  
Mikey  
|  
Peentz/Patrick/Joe/Andy  
|  
Brendon/Spencer/Jon/Ryan

Only Patrick thinks in flow-charts. Seriously. But he knows that Gerard knows Pete's employees better than he himself knows Gerard's friends. Agh, confusing.

And then there's the rest of them, Lyn and Alicia and Jamia, Frank, Ray, Bob, and somewhere after that, Patrick can't put names to faces, and can't be bothered to try. Besides, it's not about who _he_ knows, it's about Mikey's brother, the oldest of all of them, finally hitting the top of the hill. Good thing Patrick's got another seven years to go before that happens to _him._

 

April 9, 2007, 9:45 pm (A Fever You Can't Sweat Out)

Technically, the party hasn't started yet, because Gerard isn't here (and neither's Frank, and that gets Spencer and Jon giving knowing looks at each other, and breaking into dumb, boyish laughter), and the other thing that helps with the ease of their laughter (make that: dumb, boyish, _drunken_ laughter) is the fact that it's _Brendon_ at the bar, and Brendon doesn't know how to mix drinks. At all. So Spencer and Jon are toasting each other, toasting Gerard, toasting the fact that Gerard and Frank are probably off somewhere sleeping together (finally! Watching the two of them mince around each other's been aggravating and hilarious at the same time). Toasting each other until Spencer decides he wants to go outside and get a breath of fresh air.

Well, as fresh as New York air can be. Hey, it's early April, it can't be _that_ bad. And besides, the amount of rum-and-cokes Brendon's been feeding Spencer just makes him feel hot. But he still needs his coat.

But Jon's stumbling after him, careening off of people in Pete's club like a grey-fuzzy-sweater-clad pinball, hollering at Spencer to wait up, over the pounding noise of the music. Spencer turns abruptly just outside the coatroom and Jon crashes, full-tilt, into him, sending them both staggering for their balance, into a forest of jackets.

"I'm up! I'm up!" But Jon isn't, really, not when he's falling against Spencer, fingers grabbing at Spence's shirt and his hip (tiny hips, Jon thinks for a moment, small enough that he could probably get both his hands around them, no problem), and when he looks up at Spencer's face, a smile spreads across his own like honey.

"What-" But it's apparent what Jon's going to do, the moment he loops his fingers into Spencer's belt (probably expensive, but doesn't matter to Jon, because Spencer's right there, and he's full of liquid courage, and-) and doesn't just pull them hip-to-hip, but _yanks_ him in, with a grinning, hissed, "Fuck this." Fuck the way they've been tiptoeing around each other, and come to think of it, what right do they have making fun of Frank and Gerard, when they've been doing the same fucking thing, essentially? But maybe Jon's words mean something else, too. Something he's been afraid to admit. Fuck _this._

Jon really doesn't give a shit about the belt as he unfastens it, or the way his beard scrapes on Spencer's fresh-shaved skin when he all but collides their mouths together, raising a hand to immediately lose it in the dense length of Spencer's hair, parting the seam of Spencer's perfect fucking mouth with his tongue. That mouth, those teeth, the way Spencer smiles at _him_, and full of rum and coke, Jon has _no_ fear.

And when Spencer slips his hand up under Jon's sweater to palm against the side of his ribs, it's obvious that Spence has no fear, either.

_Yes._

 

April 9, 2007, 10:02 pm

Gerard shows up... alone. No Frank lurking behind him like an imp or a shadow, or a jack in the box getting ready to spring out and attach himself to Bob, or something. "He's at home," Gerard explains, after being mauled by friends and cameras and hugs, and somehow he ends up with a big red bow stuck to his forehead. "He's not, uh. Feeling great." It's as far as Gerard will go in telling that Frank's actually at _his_ place, with sore muscles in places that Frank complained he didn't even know he _had_ muscles.

"I don't know if I can even _walk_," Frank had muttered, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face. _Three times_ in the last 24 hours. It hadn't sounded like he was complaining, but maybe that's what Frank got for saying that 30 was young, if you're a tree. "I'll catch up, I promise."

"Besides, shit. How was I supposed to know it was a surprise party?" He pauses, hugging Mikey tight and transferring the bow to his head, instead. Gerard almost takes his coat off, pushing his way toward the coatroom. Almost.

Angels and Kings _shakes_, the lights flicker, dim, go out. Pete and Patrick are on one side of the room, trying to get things in working order again, while Joe and Ryan feel around in the dark for the breakers.

The lights come back on, illuminating shades of confusion, fear, suspicion.

"What the hell was that?"

Shit, _shit_ the roar of concrete, of things _falling_, and Gerard's reminded stabbingly of the moment that his art came to life. To see two towers limned in flames against the sky before toppling like so much ash. It's the sound of destruction. "Jesus Christ, Jesus _Christ_, Mikey? _Ray?_" But it's hard to hear anything, hard to see when people are already rushing the door, not just in fear, but in curiosity. What the _hell_ could have made that noise?

 

April 9, 2007, 10:02 pm

When the building trembles, Spencer's honestly not sure if it's his imagination coupled with the fact that he's drunk and Jon (fuckin' Jon _Walker_, his _friend_) has his hands on the crests of Spencer's hips, making blurred noises of satisfaction (except maybe Jon's actually making greedy sounds around him, like he enjoys it that fucking _much_), like there's nowhere else he'd rather be than right here in Pete's skanky old coat room, on his knees for Spencer James Smith V. Or- or is it real? Is it an earthquake? Is it-

_-fuck, fuck, Jon, more-_

-is it Spencer's hands twisted in Jon's short hair, _guiding_ him, toes curled inside his fancy-shmancy shoes, eyes tight-tight-shut and face screwed up in something like horrible pleasure, words chanted on this roaring, shaking air. It's not real, this can't be real, it's some kind of Brendon's-overuse-of-rum-fueled fantasy, that the world around them is falling down simply because Spencer's going to-

_-yeah, yeah, fuck, I'm-_

A voice, near the door, panicked: "Jesus _Christ_, it's the Statue of Liberty's _head._ It looks like it was blown right off!"

_Yeah_, Spencer would agree, pulling Jon to his feet to kiss him messily, Spencer's breath quick and Jon's lips bitter. _I know how she feels._

 

April 9, 2007, 10:08 pm

If there's one thing that Mikey's good at, it's convincing Bob that he needs to do things. Like, hold the camera. Which is what he's doing (still recording, not knowing what he's taping over) when he muscles his way outside with skinny ol' Ryan Ross on his heels. "Man, you're gonna get squashed." It's all the warning Bob gives, because hey, if he was Ryan's size? He'd still be out here wondering what's happening.

And oh boy, _something's_ happening, when the street's choked with debris, dust, fire. People running. The head of the Statue of Liberty, and how much would that thing have to weigh? Bob barely notices that Brendon's outside, wide-eyed, staring in the direction the head came from.

"Brendon." Bob promptly forgets what he's about to say, _get your ass back inside, you and Ryan, you shouldn't be out here,_ when he _sees._ Something. On the camera. Something huge and lumbering and shrieking loud enough that the pavement jitters under Bob's feet.

"Oh God, not again." It's almost a moan that comes out of Gerard's mouth, as he stands next to Bob, watching buildings collapse, not seeing what Bob saw. "What is it?" The roar builds to a crescendo, both organic and concrete, and Bob can't answer, not when he's running, not when he's dragging Gerard by the front of his shirt, not when he's hauling him (and Mikey, who's nearly been on his brother's back the whole time, and Bob didn't even notice) into some fucking variety store. Hunching down on the floor as everything gets dark - again - murky with debris and dust and-

-and Gerard's going _outside_, with Mikey shouting at him what a fucking idiot he's being, what if something happens, what if it comes back?

Whatever 'it' is.

"Fuck!" Gerard calls back. "I can't see anything! The goggles, zey do nussing!" Apparently Gerard deals with stress by quoting The Simpsons.

Mikey's actually able to choke out a laugh. "Bro, you're not Radioactive Man, and I'm sure as hell not Fall Out Boy." Both he and Bob follow Gerard into the frightening, sudden silence of the street, and the camera that Bob's still got in his hand catches glimpses of people made colourless, a sepia world caught against a nightscape. "Dude, there's Brendon!"

The three of them round up Brendon, who's staring with something like blank horror at where the debris had come from, in exactly the same fucking spot Bob left him in, before. His glasses are smudged with dust.

"Brendon," Bob says, gently. "Did you see it? What _was_ it?"

"It was eating people," Brendon answers, his voice so clear and cold and so calm in its shock that Bob could have fuckin' figure-skated around on it, if he wanted to. "It's hungry, and it was eating people." His knees give, and Bob catches him easily, the Brothers Way getting under each of Brendon's arms. "It ate Ryan."

Bob remembers the camera's still recording, and shuts it off. This isn't something that anyone needs to see.

April 9, 2007, 10:57 pm

It's Mikey's idea to cross the bridge to New York, to get the hell off of Manhattan, and okay, it's a _good_ idea, possibly a great one, until they see the number of people that choke the bridge.

They had gone back for Pete and Patrick. Angels and Kings was little more than rubble, with Jon looking dazed and holding up Spencer, on the sidewalk. "They're still inside," He'd hefted Spencer upright, and Spencer responded with a whistled breath and a grimace, rubbing at a scrape on his jaw before pressing his hand back to his chest. "We got out. I- I had to get Spencer out. I _had_ to. I had to dig him out, but I got him." Jon hadn't exactly been in pristine condition, with bloody fingers from tearing at the blockwork that held Spencer down, and a jagged cut snaking out of his hairline and down toward his left eyebrow. "We've gotta get 'em."

He didn't feel drunk at all, anymore.

"We can't," Gerard had said, guilt and sorrow warring on his face. "We _can't._ We've gotta get off the island. They'll get out. They'll be okay. Emergency response'll get them. I _promise._ But we've gotta _go._"

So they're here, holding each other up, Brendon between Bob and Gerard, Spencer gasping against Jon's shoulder, lips too red from just kissing. From just kissing Jon. Mikey's up ahead, hey, hey guys! He can see Ray! Gerard's shouting for Mikey to be careful, as they watch him weasel through the crowd toward the mass of dusty curls that's entirely unmistakable.

And then the bridge starts shaking. Bob closes his eyes. _Not again._ It starts to collapse.

Gerard's _shrieking_, a sound that even he didn't know he could make. "Mikey, _Mikey-_" Mikey glances upward, where the suspension cables are snapping like thread - ping! ping! ping! whistling through the air, deadly - and is trying to say something when Ray yanks him into an embrace, some parody of safety, and then-

-and then they're _gone_, and Gerard's still screaming his brother's name when his cellphone starts ringing. He misses it the first time around, but gets it on the second, voice hoarse and loud over the mass of people retreating back onto Manhattan island. He jerks away from the tentative hand on his back - Brendon, his energy for once contained by shock, Gerard's name soft on his lips - and plugs his ear to try and hear who's on the other end.

"Frank. Frank? Are you okay? Are you still- What do you mean, you can't move? No, no. Don't panic. We'll get you."

 

April 9, 2007, 11:01 pm

Jon gets Spencer into something close to sitting on the sidewalk, near Gerard's knees and as much out of harm's way as he can manage, and looks very seriously into Spencer's face. Yeah, his lips are red, they're _so_ red, like roses on the snow of his skin, and those roses spill over when Spencer coughs weakly.

"Spence, you're-"

"Think I hit my mouth," Spencer answers, squeezing Jon's shoulder. "I'm okay. Just kinda winded. Can't catch my breath. I'm okay. We lost Mikey, didn't we." His eyes are closed, like he's tired, like he's _exhausted_, like he wants nothing more than to just stay here with Jon, be warm, feel safe. "Sounded like the bridge fell."

"Yeah," Jon says softly, ducking his head so he can talk right into Spencer's ear. Smell his skin, smell his hair, because he knows it's worse than what Spencer's saying. Wanting to memorize the parts of Spencer he couldn't, before. _I couldn't just leave you._ "It did. We did. And Ray, too. But- I think we're going to get Frank. Gerard's on the phone with him."

Or not, when Gerard starts cursing and shaking his cellphone. "Fuck, _fuck_ are you fucking _serious?_ Motherfucking _battery._" He turns and runs, a sight that might just be funny any other time, when Gerard is king of the mellow walk, but for the frantic desperation on his face. "I've gotta call him back," he shouts over his shoulder, to Bob, to Brendon, or Jon or Spence, or whoever might be listening, and give a shit. "He's hurt, I've gotta call him back."

He can't be thinking about Mikey, can't and isn't, because just to _know_ that he's gone would probably drive Gerard insane. And having something else to look out for - Frank - at least holds Gerard to the cement and not toward the edge of the ruined bridge where his brother disappeared. His brother, and Ray.

And Ryan's gone, Jon thinks, getting his arms under Spencer and pulling him to his feet. Spencer groans, and Jon nearly drops him at the sound, wet and bubbly and so far from normal - like anything about tonight's been normal so far, from getting drunk and doing things he's never ever going to fucking regret, to pulling Spencer out of a broken building, to- to watching Mikey and Ray _disappear_.

Spencer stumbles, clumsy in those fancy-shmancy shoes of his (white, except not really, not anymore, not when they're dusty and grey, like his black jeans, his shirt. Monochrome but for his eyes (blue, so blue, like the sky, or cornflowers, or like ice, or... or something. Anything to not think about-), his mouth, plush and vibrant-red. And Brendon's there on Spencer's other side, quiet and sorrowful, like he knows what's happening. That he knows what's happening; despite what Spencer says, it's not good. In fact, it's pretty fucking bad, and their Fearless Leader (without even asking, everyone just gravitates toward Gerard; he's the oldest, he'll know what to do) has gone bolting back to where looters are smashing windows. To try and find, of all things, a fucking cellphone battery.

 

April 9, 2007, 11:40 pm

Gerard's rummaging around amongst the packages to find the right battery for his phone, while people around him are grabbing televisions, iPods, electrical equipment. Bob's watching one of the news reports, camera still in hand, forgotten. The reports are nothing short of abso-fucking-lutely terrifying, with shots of _things_ dropping off of whatever it was that Bob caught on the camera in the first place, _things_ that leap, howling, onto the soldiers that are trying valiantly (and unsuccessfully) to fight the giant _thing_ that's decided to tear Manhattan to little bits.

"Got it," comes Gerard, from behind. "C'mon, Bob. Bob. _Bob_, seriously. We've gotta get Frank."

Bob doesn't say anything, but makes a shushing motion with his hand, instead. This is _important._ Monumental. They're part of something that the rest of the world can _see._ Bob wonders if this is what it was like when the World Trade Centers fell. It's different to see it on the television, to hear newscasters say how horrible it is, but- but to _be_ here, to smell fear and gunpowder and dust on the air, hear the artillery fire, see flickers of flame and limbs and _things_-

"Yeah, let's go." Bob turns away from the television, clapping a hand to the back of Gerard's shoulder. "Frank's gonna be fine. That little shithead's tougher than you think." He doesn't know what's on the camera, what's on the line, between Gerard and Frank.

"He's at my place," Gerard says quietly, motioning to Jon, Brendon and Spencer that they're moving again. "We could walk the subway tunnels, maybe? If-" And for a moment, the veneer cracks, falls further, and the hopeless loss on Gerard's face is there, fresh as tears. "Mikey knows his way around Manhattan better than I do, and I _live_ here." Knows. _Knew._

"Let's go," Bob says one more time, in that same curiously gentle voice he used with Brendon. "Gather up the troops, and we'll get going."

 

April 10, 2007, 12:19 am

Gerard's right; the subway tunnels are deserted, with no sounds of trains coming from any direction. It's taking both Brendon and Jon to hold Spencer up now, when he's sucking for breath, barely conscious, but still fucking stubborn enough, still _there_ enough to tell them to keep going. Except 'tell' isn't exactly the right word, when he doesn't have much in the way of a voice, left. Gerard's ahead of them, looking up and down the tunnel, trying to figure out the right way to go, and then there's Bob, looking helplessly back and forth between Gerard and the three kids from Angels and Kings.

"Put me down for a sec," Spencer gasps, waving his hand vaguely at one of the benches. "You jerks can't carry me forever." To Brendon, it looks like Spencer hasn't slept in _weeks_, all heavy black circles under his eyes and ashen-skinned, and there's nothing he can think of to say, to make this easier. For himself, feeling selfish and guilty about wanting to hold onto Spencer, especially after- after what happened to Ryan (eaten, Brendon's mind adds ominously. Ryan got eaten, and that thing's right up there above us, and it's gonna eat you, too, Ryan's more like a toothpick than a meal). And the desperation on Jon's face makes it harder; to know that there's something secret between Jon and Spencer that wasn't there before, that wasn't even there earlier this afternoon. Or was it, and Brendon was just too dense, too self-absorbed, too... whatever Brendon is, to see it? Maybe it's always been there.

"I would if I could," Brendon says, sitting next to Spencer. "And Jon would, too." Jealous, maybe, at the slow way Spencer turns his face toward Jon, forces himself to smile after swiping at the blood on his lips. He starts to say something, pulling in barely more than a sip of breath, when the lights flicker, and they're left in blackness, pure dark made worse this time by the fact that they're fucking _underground_, listening to the crumble and tremble of walls around them.

"Stay where you are." Jon leans over Spencer to talk to both of them, and squinting into the dark for Bob or Gerard or- or. Or maybe it's not just the walls that are making that dry noise, maybe it's something else, something _alive._

"What's that sound?" Brendon, in a stage whisper, hoping that whatever it is making that scuttling, restless noise can't hear him, and Gerard and Bob can.

"Jon?" Spencer, little more than a croak.

"Turn on the light, there's a light on that camera." Gerard's voice, tight and thin with anxiety. "Or I can use my- no, I've gotta get a hold of Frank again, but there's no signal down here. And I can't kill this battery, too."

"Brendon?" This time, Spencer's voice is barely a husky, liquid whisper.

Bob fumbles in the pitch-black with the camera, finding the light button and arcing the camera back and forth, trying to find the source of the sound. "There's nothing there." Bob's whispering too, but not for the same reasons as Spencer, or even Brendon. He can't seem to find his voice, when it's so dark, so fundamentally _black_ that their movements, their voices, their _everything_ seems to have been consumed by it. It's safe, it's got to be, and he turns the light off again. Keep the light until they're in the tunnels themselves.

"_Jon._" In the dark, Jon feels Spencer's arm, heavy as lead, wrap around his waist, feels Spencer's head on his shoulder. Smell the blood on his breath, shallow and cool and quick, like copper. Not even shallow, something worse than that, bubbly and laboured and hiccuped. "Jon. I can't. Buh- I."

"It's okay," Jon whispers, pulling Spencer into an awkward side-by-side hug. "Once the lights are on, we'll keep going. We'll get to Gerard's place, and you can rest. Okay?"

Spencer doesn't answer. The rumbling above subsides, leaving them in the quiet dark, all held-breath with fear. Even the scabrous, dry sound that had skittered down the tunnel toward them was still. Held breath.

And no breath. Spencer's silent, forehead tucked against the side of Jon's neck. _Hush._

 

April 10, 2007, 12:45 am

The lights finally come back on. Gerard's messing with his phone, and Bob squints against the flourescents, even though they're only lit every-other-one. Brendon, Jon and Spencer are still huddled together (like puppies, Bob thinks, scared and little and young) on a bench in the resting area.

"Frank," Gerard barks into his phone. "Pick the fuck up, you stupid shit. Come on." It's not angry, it's _urgent_, like staying out of contact for- for- for _two hours_, Gerard realizes, means that he's never going to speak to Frank again. Never going to be _able_ to speak to him again. "Frank, it's Gerard, call me when you get this. I don't have much service down here - we're in the fucking subway. We're coming. Just- just leave me a voicemail or something if you get this, okay?" Almost as a response to Gerard snapping his phone closed, that chittering sounds comes from the tunnel again. At least it's not in the direction they want to go in.

"C'mon guys, I think we're moving again." Bob holds his hand out to Brendon to hoist him off the bench, hoping Jon and Spencer will follow. Brendon takes a moment, looking reluctant to leave his friends for even one moment, and leans over to peer into the gaping darkness. "We're going in there, huh? Seriously guys, if I can do it, then you guys can, too." Fake bravado for Jon and Spencer.

"Spence." Jon shakes Spencer, a little, trying to wake him. "Hey, we're moving again." But Spencer doesn't answer, and Jon's guts go cold and loose. "No, seriously. We're going. You've gotta come with us." Brendon turns like he's been stung, dark eyes wide.

"Get him up." It's sharp; the denial in his voice silver-bright and honed enough to cut. The voice that Brendon uses when he wants his way, when he's _going_ to get his way, come hell or high water or the motherfucking Apocalypse. Bob and Gerard stand helpless, antsy, ready to go, but not ready to leave. "Get Spencer up, Jon. He _likes_ you, he fucking told me, and if you say it, he'll do it." His voice pitches higher with panic, body electric-tense and angry.

"I can't. I think. I think he's-" But Jon can't say it, because to _say_ it means it's real, that Spencer's gone. That all the denial and no-we-aren't that culminated into twenty lousy fucking minutes of a drunken blowjob in a fucking _closet_ means- "We have to go." Abrupt. Jon eases himself out of Spencer's loose embrace (and he's warm, still-warm, like he's sleeping fucking beauty, and if Jon kisses him, if he rouses him the right way, then it'll be like some sick dream, where none of this is really happening), and gently lays him out on the bench. "Brendon, we can't stay here. Spencer's gotta stay, but we can't." Jon's voice is soft, monotone, eyes red and too-shiny for their own good.

The way Brendon breathes tells too clearly how close he is to panic, to tears, to rage. Gasps and chokes and stutters of air. "Is- Are his eyes closed?"

"Yeah. I told him he could rest." Jon glances up at the ceiling of the subway platform, mouth drawn into a fine line, and he swipes at his eyes with his sleeve. "_God._ Let's go."

 

April 10, 2007, 1:22 am

Bob manages to keep the light off, mostly, to conserve the battery for when they might actually _need_ it, and the four of them (four, only four, when they started out with more than double this number, Pete and Patrick and Andy and Joe - Andy and Joe, did they get away? - and the four kids that worked for Pete, and _Mikey_ and _Ray_... and Bob can't think about it anymore, it makes his heart jackhammer and his eyes feel hot) stumble in the stifling, heated black of the subway tunnel, with the occasional flare of light so Gerard can pick where they're going next.

He knows Gerard's afraid of the dark; it's something they've teased him about for years, ever since there was The Incident With The Nightlight (it was Mickey Mouse or something dumb like that, and man, Frank gave him _hell_ for it), but now Bob understands. It's oppressive and thick, something that feels like it's going to consume them if they don't get out of it soon. "Geeway, you okay?" Hushed, trying to keep track of how many pairs of feet are with them (four: Jon's, heavy and shuffling; Brendon's, unsteady and quick, like he doesn't know where to step; Gerard's, back-and-forth across the width of the tunnel, trying to see without actually seeing; his own, somewhere in the middle), and flicking the light on to make sure he's right.

Jon looks like a zombie, blank-eyed and expressionless, holding Brendon's hand like they're some kind of bizarre Hansel and Gretel, following the trail to Gerard's apartment. They're dirt-smudged, with dust in their hair and dried blood on their clothes, from helping Spencer along, and Brendon keeps looking behind them, in the direction of the scuttled, beetley noises had come from, before they started walking. Before they left the station. Before Spencer had-

"You know what word I really like?" Brendon asks, dully, once Bob's turned the light off again. "Diplodocus."

Bob has to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing at that; nothing about any of this is even remotely funny.

 

April 10, 2007, 1:12 am

"Jeez, Patrick, did you fart or something?" Pete's voice is lethargic, now, dazed, like somehow the connections between his brain and his mouth (usually like a wayward horse, Patrick thinks, sometimes well-behaved, but other times running wild and kicking down everything in its path) are broken. Sure, it doesn't help that most of Angels and Kings is around them, and Patrick's feeling a little claustrophobic (or a lot), but at least Pete's here to keep him company. So they can keep each other company until help arrives.

"It smells like rotten eggs. It's totally you." Patrick takes off his glasses for the umpteenth time, polishes them against his dirty t-shirt, and pushes them back onto his face. "It's that weird vegan stuff you eat. It makes you _reek._"

They've been alone for hours, listening to the rumble of (tanks, could it be tanks?) vehicles, the rattle of gunfire. Dim shouting voices that haven't unearthed them yet from this- this fucking _tomb_, Patrick thinks, swallowing down panic that feels cloying and gagging, like trying to eat dryer lint. Joe and Andy had stayed as long as they could, pulled at as much as they could handle, before yelling that they were going to find help.

That was hours ago. _Hours._ And nobody's come yet.

"You know how you get away with farting in a loaded elevator?" Pete slurs, leaning his head back against Patrick's stomach. Sprawled out behind the bar with the club above them and the smell of booze below them, and _farts_, rotten-egg smell, everywhere else. "You let it rip and then give someone else a dirty look." Patrick laughs, pets at Pete's hair, resting his head against the wall, letting his eyes fall closed. No sense in trying to stay awake, when they're obviously not going to get themselves out, and neither of them are particularly hurt (though Pete had complained that he cut his hand on a piece of glass, and reamed an absent-Brendon out for a good ten minutes). And besides, if he closes his eyes, then he can't see the fact that they're in a space that's roughly the size of an elevator.

At least Pete's with him.

Patrick dreams about something strange, about being a giant steak while Pete's bulldog gives him the hungry eye (or maybe it's because Patrick's a giant cat; it's a dream, he's not sure what's going on), when Pete stops breathing. He's got his hand on Pete's chest, doesn't miss when it stops rising and falling, too lost in... in being lost, to realize.

_your arms...  
they  
they...  
make the cold seem sweet...  
seem addictive.  
and seductive..._

Lost, and never coming home.

April 10, 2007, 2:09 am

"That's my building, over there." Gerard mutters, to no one or everyone.

"It's the tower of Pisa," Brendon volunteers sourly. "How're you gonna get up there to get Frank?"

"_'You'?_" Jon pulls his hand from Brendon's, rounding on him, finally showing something other than abject shock, glancing between the building (it looks like a cigar that's been in someone's pocket too long, Bob thinks, it looks _croggled_, crooked and broken at the bottom), Gerard, and Brendon's petulant face. "No... there's no 'you'. _We're_ going to get him, and if you wanna wait here and sulk like a fucking _child_, you can. You want Frank to end up like Spencer? D- dead," and saying it feels like throwing up acid, "and left behind?"

All attention's on him, even Gerard's, rapt and wide-eyed.

"Spencer's _dead._ Ryan's dead. Gerard's brother is dead. Fuckin' Ray is dead. Pete and Patrick? Probably dead. And I don't even _know_ about Andy and Joe. Chrissake, Brendon, stop being so fucking- whatever you are and- _fuck._"

If he weren't feeling like his head was on fire, like it's getting ready to go into total nuclear meltdown, Jon would realize he's probably never sworn that much in one stretch, ever. And he's _never_ laid his hands on Brendon in anger, ever. Until now. "Stay here, get eaten by that _thing_, or one of those other little things that are falling off of it. I don't _care._ We left Spencer because we had to. But we're not leaving anyone else."

Brendon looks up at Jon from where he's on his ass in the parking lot, eyes hurt and huge. "You didn't have to _push_ me."

"Get up." It's all Gerard has to offer Brendon before crossing the lot, looking up (and up and _up_) at the buildings that stand side by side, and how his building (of course it's _his_ building, why couldn't they have _one_ thing go easily for them?) is leaned against it. "We're gonna have to go up the one building and cross over, I think." He's not thinking (desperately, desperately not thinking, except that, really, it's the only thing he _can_ think about) that he hasn't heard from Frank yet; that he hasn't called, hasn't left a message. Because he's got to be okay.

 

April 10, 2007, 2:58 am

The sign says they're on the 28th floor. It could be the 280th floor, for all that Brendon cares. They've been climbing _forever_, stair after stair until it seems like it'll never end. But Gerard stops, expression careful and contemplative. "Not far." The air comes like a breath on the stairs, where a door's been left open, or there's a hole in the wall.

Okay, it's a hole. A _giant_ hole, with rubble scattered around, but... this isn't where they can get outside. Something else made this hole; rammed through the wall, or made it collapse, or _something._ It makes Brendon's stomach twist, to think about, and in the back of his head, he can hear the noise (of legs, dry, insectile legs, like spiders or beetles) from the subway.

"Wait a sec. I've gotta barf," Jon breathes, sick and indistinct. Brendon waits with him, feeling guilty and sore and _exhausted_, unable to process that it's just him and Jon now, and unwilling (after Jon yelled at him, and shoved him so hard that Brendon's tailbone barked against the pavement, and Brendon thinks he's got enough padding back there to cushion the fall, right? But apparently not) to leave Jon alone, even for a moment.

Not even when he hears (for sure, it's for _sure_ this time) that same sound, chitinous against concrete. "Bob." Whispered and hoarse, keeping his hands on Jon's shoulders. "You've got the light, look around. It's that fucking noise from the subway."

Again, and same as before, Bob sees nothing. Even when he turns on the night-filter, that makes them green-skinned and alien through the viewpiece. Nothing. It doesn't make anyone feel better.

"Done," Jon announces, spitting once, twice, and hooking his arm around Brendon's waist.

They keep going.

 

April 10, 2007, 3:07 am

"Here." And Gerard's right; when he opens the door, it's to a mass of destruction, sprays of concrete and steel rebar, broken glass, and the angle of Gerard's building's roof seems _impossible_ to climb. But he's out on it, not caring now if anyone's following him, or how the glass cuts his hands (artist's hands, it's how he makes his living, and he doesn't fucking _care_). Just- anything he can do, anything he can grab, to get to the door that'll lead him into his own building, down the three storeys, to his own apartment. And Frank.

The door on the roof hangs on its hinges, an open mouth ready to swallow them into the deep, caving blackness of the stairwell. Gerard doesn't look back. Doesn't need to, when they're behind him, silent but for grunts of effort, the skid of feet for traction (much more reassuring, more well-known than those _other_ sounds, the ones from the building they're fleeing from like children from a haunted house), and the gasps of breath once they're in.

"Jesus Christ, Gerard," Bob wheezes. "For an artist, you're one fast motherfucker." But he's lost Gerard's attention (again, and never really had it to begin with, to be honest) as Gee weaves back and forth to keep his balance, toward the stairs, punching angrily at the buttons on his cellphone, before shoving it up against his ear.

Gerard must have a motherfucking penthouse, Brendon thinks, almost sure he can hear Frank's cellphone ring, in answer. But that's not the case, not when floors have collapsed in on themselves, from both the top and the bottom. The floor's a _minefield_ to walk through, stepping over broken bits of wall and concrete, webs of rebar (Brendon has a moment where his brain produces giant robotic spiders that sit on these webs, preying on things like BlackBerries, cellphones, Sidekicks and emo kids), and hallway carpeting that looks humped and wavy; sand dunes in the middle of the city.

"Frank! Frank! You shithead, _answer_ me." Oh, Christ, Gerard's apartment is _wrecked_, but at least it's still there, unlike the other corner apartment across the hall, which has a door.... and not much else. But Frank's not there, so it doesn't matter, right? Except that the hallway is tilted and skewed toward it, like some kind of fucking black hole, or a gaping maw, or some kind of monster-mouth-

-Brendon really needs to stop thinking about those things they heard and never saw, in the subway. (They're ready to eat you, Brendon Urie. You just wait and see. Om nom nom.)

And for all of Gerard's shouting, Frank doesn't answer.

Gerard climbs through the debris that was once his place, an artist's apartment with canvases, a light table, reams of paper and pens and pencils and _paint_, and the only light is from the moon, from the fires in other buildings and on the ground, and the two combined paint Frank's features at once pale and flicker-jaundiced. Makes the blood around the base of the rebar that's through (_through_, Brendon thinks, staring wonderingly. Through Frank like a needle pinning a butterfly on a board) his shoulder look black.

"Jesus Christ," Gerard whispers, dropping to his hands and knees beside Frank. "Shit, Frank. God, please be alive."

Brendon turns away, toward Bob, toward Jon, pinching the bridge of his nose with dirty fingers. Another one, another loss, and _fuck_, they'd been so _close._

"Took you assholes long enough." Frank's voice is a low croak, and he doesn't even bother to open his eyes when Gerard stifles a noise that could as easily be a laugh as a sob, and touches Frank's face, his hair, like he's trying to make sure he actually heard Frank talk. "I dropped my fucking phone, and, you know, not exactly being in a position to get up and run after it, I got to listen to it ring. I need to change that shit. You know your ring's Eye of the Tiger, right?"

Now Bob can laugh. Typical Frank.

"So, you wanna get me off this thing, or do I have to get all Terminator 2 on you guys and do it myself?" Gerard makes that sound again in answer, but this time it's definitely a laugh, high and strangled and relieved. The words are so right – so Frank – but the tone's all wrong, low and flat, and he grimaces when he opens his eyes to blink blearily at the four of them standing around him like mourners at an open grave.

"Frank, it's gonna fuckin' kill," Bob warns, setting the camera down on the sloped floor, praying to God or Carl or Ferdinand (or whatever His name might be) that it doesn't slide away. It's their light, their direction to get away, get somewhere safe, now that they've got Frank. "Jon, Brendon, you get his legs. You're just little guys. Geeway and I… we'll get his shoulders."

"Bob? Just so you know? If you make me cry, I'm totally punching you in the balls." But that's all the warning Frank gives, gripping Gerard's arm with his good hand, and they exchange a look that- that's so fucking painfully similar to the ones Spencer and Jon shared before Spencer- before he- that Brendon has to clear his throat, clench his teeth, and not look at _anyone._

It really doesn't help that Frank's in Gerard's clothes, either; a white shirt that's probably never seen the light of day, with the Umbrella Academy logo on it, and a pair of boxers that are probably big enough they'll head for points south once they get Frank on his feet.

"_Lift,_" Bob grunts, getting his hands under Frank's back, and they do, and Bob realizes that Frank's one tough motherfucker, barely making a sound as they pull him off the rebar. They set him down on his knees so he can breathe, or, like, not-die. Not-dying would be really, really good at this point. A bonus.

Gerard's touching Frank again, inspecting him carefully, making sure there's nothing else wrong other than the dime-sized hole in his shoulder (but not anywhere lethal, it's gotta hurt like a son of a bitch, but it's not _lethal_), and Frank rests his forehead heavily on Gerard's shoulder.

"Fuck's sake. Of all the things I've had stuck in me, that hurt the _most._" And he laughs. _Laughs_, a genuine Frank-laugh, and it's easily contagious, if not slightly hysterical, starting with Gerard, passing to Bob, to Brendon and Jon. Relief-laughter.

Except maybe Gerard's not laughing anymore, maybe he's breathing in gasps and tears against Frank's hair, arms around him, firm and possessive. "Mikey's dead," he whispers. "So's Ray. And Spencer, and Ryan. I can't- I can't fucking believe that you're okay."

Frank gets his arm around Gerard, holding him as tight as he can. "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry." The only words he can say, and they don't feel like enough.

 

April 10, 2007, 4:36 am

They're back in the subway. Where they're going? None of them really know, but it's safer than being up top, where the giant thing that ate Ryan is, or where the parasitic little things that fell off that giant thing might be dining merrily on the army.

Jon noticed it from the shattered window that led to what was once Gerard's balcony. Tanks, soldiers. Bombers, coming in. The whole nine yards.

"I think Manhattan's screwed," he'd said, and it was almost like he didn't care; it was like Spencer's shadow lay dark and bloody on his conscience.

Closer to each station they passed, they can hear it: rolling treads, the patter-pow of gunfire, and some ghastly, inhuman roar. Which is how they miss-

-Jon topples forward, out of Brendon's hold, and there's something on him the size of a dog, and not just a little teensy Paris-Hilton-type-dog, but a _dog_.

Except for the part where it's more like a spider, all eyes and legs and fucking _mandibles_, snapping at Jon in huge, bony chops.

And Brendon snaps.

"Get _off_ him, fucker! You can't have him, you can't have _all_ of them and leave _me_, so get the fuck _off_ him!" A voice that Jon was always used to hearing sing while he worked, smooth and fame-worthy, screaming now, as Brendon _beats_ on whatever it is that's trying to nosh Jon like a chicken drumstick.

But it's not the only one in the tunnel. As Bob turns on the light to help, to see, to beat this fucking monstrosity to death (or at least submission, that'd be nice, if it'd just leave them the hell alone, it's not like they were bothering it or anything, right?), another one drops down off the ceiling of the tunnel to land on Frank.

Between Bob's fists and Brendon's feet and Jon turning his sweater inside-out around the creature that's got its teeth in the fabric, Jon crab-crawls backward until his shoulders hit the dirty brick, breathing quick and heavy, _electric_ with fear. Gerard's already trying to stick his fingers in the other dog-monster-spider-parasite-_thing_'s eyes when Jon shouts Frank's name. Maybe it's a warning.

Bob makes sure the trapped parasite-thing is pretty fucking dead, its bloody ichor soaking through Jon's sweater when he crunches his heel into where he thinks its head is.

The other one's already pulled away, squealing, from being partially blinded from Gerard's fingers. But-

"Motherfucker _bit_ me." They wait until the sound of retreating legs (hairy legs, Brendon imagines, and even after seeing it, he can't picture it clearly, like his brain's trying to block it out) is gone before Bob turns the light onto Frank, illuminating a bright red crescent of bites through his shirt. "At least it bit my shitty shoulder, anyway." But he's bleeding. A lot. "I'm gonna have some neat scars." Frank grins weakly at Gerard, at Bob, at Jon and Brendon. "It didn't even get my tattoos. And _that's_ a feat. Clearly, I'm SuperFrank."

"Clearly, you're a fucking idiot." Gerard makes an embarrassed face, waving his hand at Bob, Jon and Brendon. "Can a guy have a second of privacy to take his shirt off? We've gotta use something to mop Frank up, otherwise he's going to bleed all over us. And you _know_ he'll do it deliberately."

It's obvious they don't want to turn away, not out of interest for seeing Sexy Old Gerard Way with his shirt off, but because they're scared to take their eyes off each other, in case something else happens, or if that fucking awful thing comes back for seconds. But Bob does it first, followed by Jon, and Brendon simply covers his eyes. There's some shuffling of clothes, and the sound of Frank wolf-whistling and Gerard making a snide answer before he says "Okay, I'm decent again."

Pressing the shirt to Frank's shoulder, Frank hisses and grumbles, "Careful, you ass. I'm a delicate fucking flower, you know? Ah- _ow._"

"You okay to walk?" Bob ventures, clicking the light off.

In the dark, the sound of Frank's voice sounds like light. "You're gay. It's my arm, not my legs. I can fuckin' walk. I could outrun you in a minute, you fucking tank. And I'm _barefoot._"

Bob has a moment, just one moment, where he thinks things are going to be okay. If Frank sounds like that, then they're going to be alright. Just one moment of hope.

 

April 10, 2007, 5:01 am

"I hear voices."

"Are they telling you to kill your mom and dad?" It's the best joke that Jon can come up with, to Brendon's declaration, even if it comes out thick and low.

"No, shut up." Their Fearless Leader, this time, in agreement with Brendon. "I hear it, too." None of them really know how long they've been walking in the dark, picking lefts and rights at the forks in the tunnels seemingly by random, and it feels like ages since they came upon a station. Gerard's glad for the voices that he hears, dim and muffled, because Frank feels hot in the circle of his arms, and he's been very, very quiet. He feels feverish, sweaty, and he's been stumbling. "You okay?" Whispered secretly against the damp mess of Frank's hair. Fuck, Frank doesn't even _smell_ right; he smells like pennies and sick-sweat, and the noise he makes in answer makes Gee demand for light, again.

"Oh my god." Bob, horrified, focusing the light on Gerard and Frank. "Oh my god, he's bleeding _everywhere._"

"I don't feel good," Frank blurs, lifting his head to squint at the intrusion of the light. "Get that fuckin' thing off my face, Bob. I'll-" Whatever it is that Frank means to threaten is lost when he stumbles again, nearly falls, and Gerard catches him.

"Oh fuck. Oh _Frank._" Bob's right. It's not just his shoulder, it's- it's _everything._ It's red patches under the arms of Gerard's shirt, down the line of Frank's back, ringed crimson around the neck. Sweating it out. Soaked down the insides of Frank's thighs, and weeping blood from his eyes, from his nose, the corners of his mouth. Even the beds of his nails are purple and bloody.

"The voices have to be the military," Brendon rushes, paralyzed by the sight of Frank, looking like some kind of fucking horror-movie doll in Gerard's arms. "If- if we get him to them, they'll know what to do. They've gotta, they've been fighting whatever it is that's up there. They've _gotta_ do something. _Frank._ Christ."

But Frank drops to his knees with a warning sound, not because he can't hold himself up, but because even as muddled as he feels, he doesn't want to throw up on Gerard. It's not vomit. It's more blood. It's _all_ blood.

"Don't look," Jon hisses, twisting Brendon away. "Don't look, it's terrible." Gerard keens a noise behind them, something that sounds like Frank's name, something begging and desperate, unwilling to let him go. Afraid of failing, like he did to Mikey (when Mikey was twenty five feet ahead of them, and Gerard _should_ have been there to save him, it was his little brother, and he'll never fucking forgive himself for that).

"C'mon, Frank. You're not gonna fuckin' die on me."

 

April 10, 2007, 5:17 am

The voices are closer than they think, with Gerard all but dragging Frank along, Jon and Brendon in front and Bob behind, and _goddamn_, Brendon's right. And even better, it's some kind of military hospital setup in the station. Frank'll be okay.

They're stopped, quizzed harshly about who they are, where they're from, and Brendon's the first one to talk, words tripping over each other as he tells the story of Angels and Kings, of Gerard's apartment, of the things that surprised them like monsters under the bed.

Well, he _tries_ to tell about it, but there are shouts of "We've got another bite!" And Frank's all but wrenched out of Gerard's arms and lain out on a stretcher, where he shivers and makes blind grabbing motions for a hand. For someone, anyone, just someone's fingers to squeeze, when he can't see, can't hear, can't talk, can't even _breathe_ for the bitter taste of blood. On his back, drowning.

"Your friend's going to die. And you're going to be escorted to the extraction point so you can get the hell to safety."

Fucking soldiers, Bob thinks, watching helplessly as Gerard touches Frank's fingertips, slick and red, his face dumb with shock as Frank arches weakly on the stretcher, bloody eyes rolled back in his head, working _desperately_ to breathe, to just. Just-

-it's not enough, and the soldier's right. Frank dies with his fingers curled in Gerard's, and Bob has to pull Gee away by force.

"I don't want to go," Gerard say softly, numbly. "I don't want to be safe, anymore." But once Frank's covered (blood seeping through clean white, tented over his nose and chin and toes), Gerard's easy to move, pliable like putty, too shocked in his grief for tears.

It's a dream, it's a nightmare, how quickly they're rushed from the underground to above-ground, where there's a helicopter waiting.

"This one's only got room for one!" The pilot shouts (he looks like a bug, all fly-eyed in his helmet and goggles, and it's still fucking dark out, Brendon complains, loud and childish in his own head, why does he need them?), and before Brendon even realizes, he's the one getting shoved up into the seat.

By Jon. "You go, stupid. We'll be right behind you. I promise."

But so many promises have been broken, tonight. So many. And this is just one more.

 

April 10, 2007, 7:22 am

This is what the camera sees:

Dirty-faced, exhausted, emotionally wrecked. "My name is Gerard Arthur Way. I'm thirty years old. Yesterday was my birthday, and Manhattan fell apart. If you can see this, you know more about what happened than we do. There's just two of us, now. From…" The camera captures the way Gerard thinks for a moment, counting in his head. "…Thirteen. I think. Whatever it is that's out there, it got Bob. Like, ten minutes ago. It didn't eat him, but-" Gerard looks away from the camera, swallowing heavily. "-his body's still out there, in the park. I hope someone finds him. They're getting ready to carpet-bomb the island. They told us that when the other helicopter didn't come."

The camera's handed over with some shuffling, quick, shaky shots of Central Park, of dim dawn. Sounds of aerial bombs and airplanes, almost deafening. Jon waits until it's over.

"I'm Jonathan Jacob Walker. I'm- I would have been twenty-two this year. Everyone's dead except me and Gerard. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that we didn't do better. That- that's all I've got."

This is where the video ends.


End file.
